


tabula rasa

by nemuimoi



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Maruki's Bad End, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Persona 5: The Royal Spoilers, but is it really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27073969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemuimoi/pseuds/nemuimoi
Summary: “You see,” Maruki explains in a gentle tone. “Akechi-kun’s life up to this point has been... complicated, to say the least. So in order to give him a chance to be happy as well, a lot of his memories had to be erased, or at least altered. But don’t worry! You can make new ones, together. You just need to let yourself be happy too.”Akira’s blood feels ice cold with rage. Believing this man was the worst decision he’s ever made.Akira accepts Maruki’s deal. Things don’t go quite as well as he imagined.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 17
Kudos: 123





	tabula rasa

Akira wakes up. Breathes in the cool air of the attic, lets consciousness come to him in waves. Tries to focus.

It’s February 4th. Yongen-Jaya is peaceful, quiet, slowly coming to life together with the rising sun. The sky is painted with splotches of pinks and purples. Akira feels disoriented, his memory fuzzy with sleep and something else, something he can’t quite put his finger on.

There was—there was a party, yesterday. He organized it himself, supposedly, even though he can’t remember that—why can’t he remember? All his closest friends were there. The Phantom Thieves—where did that name even come from? He can’t recall, but he supposes it’s not that important. The Phantom Thieves were there, and so was Kasumi, and Akechi—Akechi was there, too, but why wouldn’t he be? He was their friend, even if, now that Akira thinks about it, he doesn’t know how and when exactly they got so close.

There’s clearly something amiss with his memory, but it’s still early. Surely, he just needs some more sleep. He closes his eyes, lets his consciousness drift away.

It’s February 4th. It’s a beautiful day.

Akira wonders why something feels wrong.

* * *

By the time he wakes up again, the feeling is gone. He eats Sojiro’s curry, checks his phone, and finds a few messages from various friends inviting him to hang out—and so, he spends the day doing just that. He’s having fun, the weather is cool but pleasant, and everything is as it should be.

There’s only one thing he needs to make this beautiful day even better—and his wish is granted, for when he returns to Leblanc, Akechi is sitting right there on his usual stool, reading a book.

“Ah, Akira,” he greets him with a charming smile. “Boss left just a few minutes ago, asked me to watch the cafe until you’re home. He said something about dinner with Futaba and Isshiki-san, so he wants you to lock up today.”

There’s a faint buzzing in Akira’s head. He chooses to ignore it.

“Sure,” he replies, putting his bag on one of the booth tables. He puts on his apron and steps behind the bar, notices Akechi’s cup is empty. Akechi seems engrossed in his novel again—the cover says _Arsène Lupin, Gentleman Burglar_ , and something about it seems familiar, but Akira can’t recall where he heard the name. The buzzing in his head grows louder.

“Akechi,” he says to get his attention. “Do you want more coffee?”

Akechi lifts his head, looking at Akira with surprise.

“Akechi?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “And where did that formality come from? Just call me Goro like usual.”

The buzzing is a steady, loud noise now. Since when have they been on a first-name basis? It’s not like Akira to forget something like that.

“But yes,” Akechi—no, Goro—continues. “I’d love another cup.”

Akira tries to focus on making the coffee just as Sojiro taught him. He sets the finished product in front of Goro, who seems to have finished his book in the meantime, and is now talking to Akira.

Goro’s steady stream of words barely reaches Akira’s ears. His voice is pleasant, his words meaningless, and everything is like background noise to the buzzing, so loud now that it’s threatening to split Akira’s head open.

“Anyway,” he barely registers Goro say, and hopes it’s not too obvious he didn’t catch anything before that. “Yesterday was fun, but I’m glad I came here today and got to spend some time alone with you.”

Goro reaches out to place his hand on top of Akira’s where it’s resting at the counter.

The buzzing stops—

And everything in the world around Akira finally slides into place.

Yesterday, when they were all together, Goro was just one of many people in the room, and Akira’s attention—already lacking, his mind fuzzy, unfocused—was split between them all, so nothing in particular stood out to him. Now that they’re alone, and Akira’s focus is solely on Goro, his mind finally rejects the lie.

The rush of new information to his head—no, not new, _forgotten_ —feels like hours passing as memories float through his mind. The Metaverse, Akechi, their promise, the deal Maruki offered him, the angry look of betrayal on Akechi’s face as Akira accepted. But in reality, it probably only takes a split second.

Goro’s hand is still resting on top of his own. Akira nearly flinches at how _wrong_ it feels.

Goro is not like Akira remembers him, not like the real Akechi. He’s so obviously fake it makes Akira sick. And if he’s so different from how he was just two days ago—Akira feels dizzy as the terrifying realization hits him—that means the Akechi from two days ago was real, was _alive_ , and this one is nothing more than a copy created by Maruki. No different from Wakaba Isshiki and the others he brought back to life.

The real Akechi was alive, and he died alone somewhere in Maruki’s palace, trying to take him on himself like Akira should have known he would. As strong as he was, Akira doubts he even reached Maruki—he’s seen the shadows in that palace, fought them alongside Akechi. They were challenging with the two of them there, and alone—

Akira feels his insides twist. 

“I’m not feeling well,” he manages to say, his voice sounding foreign even to his own ears. “I think—I think I should go to bed early. Could you leave so I can lock up?”

Goro gives him a concerned look.

“Of course,” he replies, squeezing Akira’s hand in a reassuring gesture. His hand is deceptively warm for a corpse. “Please take care of yourself.”

All Akira can see when he looks at him is Akechi’s lifeless body, slowly starting to decompose somewhere on the spotless white floor of Maruki’s palace.

He rushes to Leblanc’s tiny bathroom, falls to the floor and empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet, clutching at the bowl. His head is spinning. This cannot be happening, cannot be real, he wants to fall asleep once more and wake up to find this was all a bad dream—but it is real, and he can’t escape the fact that Goro Akechi is dead and a ghost of him has taken his place.

Can’t escape the fact that he chose this reality himself.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he feels like he can detach himself from the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, but when he finally emerges from the bathroom, he is, thankfully, alone.

He fishes his phone out of his school bag and opens the IM client, searching for the chat with Maruki.

“Come to Leblanc,” he types. “I need to talk to you.”

It’s not a beautiful day, Akira realizes.

It’s a terrible day.

Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

* * *

“You lied,” is the first thing Akira says when the bell in Leblanc chimes, marking Maruki’s entrance. “You said he’d be alive in your reality, and that he’d die if we left. Whoever this—this person is, it’s not him. He’s not real, but he _was_ earlier, and now he’s gone forever, and it’s all because _you fucking lied_ and then you _killed him yourself!_ ”

If Maruki’s surprised by his outburst, he hides it well. He’s wearing clothes Akira’s never seen on him, among them a hat— _stupid fucking hat_ , Akira’s mind helpfully supplies—that he takes off and holds in his hands as he seems to think about his answer.

“You need to understand,” he finally replies, infuriatingly calm. “I simply wanted both of you to have a chance at a better life. And I never said that Akechi-kun was already dead in the real world, just suggested that it was likely. I couldn’t have known that myself, not with absolute certainty.”

Akira has no idea if he can believe that. Still, he has more questions to ask, more overflowing anger to spill, to spit out like venom. To let out before it consumes him whole.

“You brought back Haru’s father. You brought back Futaba’s mother. Makoto’s father, too. Why are all of them fooled, why is Akechi the only one not real enough to fool me?”

“Ah, that is fairly simple to explain.” Maruki has the audacity to smile at him. He sounds almost excited to elaborate, reminding Akira of the time when he was working on his research—with Akira’s help, no less. He can’t decide if he’s more disgusted with Maruki or himself, for being foolish enough to fall for his beautiful lie instead of facing the difficult truth. “All of them are created in the same manner, based on the knowledge and memories I could gather. It’s a matter of cognition. Your friends aren’t resisting this reality, so they have no reason to doubt these people are real. Their own minds fill in the gaps for them. You, for some reason, are the only one whose mind is still fighting this.” 

It must have something to do with his power of a wild card, Akira thinks. His supposed will of rebellion. It’s strong enough to keep him from accepting what’s happening here in this reality as the truth. Wasn’t strong enough to make him reject it in the first place. The irony almost makes him laugh.

“If he’s supposed to be based on my knowledge of him, on my memories,” Akira continues his interrogation, trying not to think about how Maruki went digging through his brain, violated his privacy so deeply, invaded the most intimate of his thoughts. About how he gave him permission to do that himself. “Then why is he so obviously different from the real Akechi that I remember?”

“You see,” Maruki explains in a gentle tone. “Akechi-kun’s life up to this point has been... complicated, to say the least. So in order to give him a chance to be happy as well, a lot of his memories had to be erased, or at least altered. But don’t worry! You can make new ones, together. You just need to let yourself be happy too.”

Akira’s blood feels ice cold with rage. Believing this man was the worst decision he’s ever made.

“He’s a human being,” he snarls. “Not a fucking—fucking coloring book to be filled with your shitty pictures!”

Maruki makes a face like he’s trying to console a petulant child rather than discuss someone’s fate.

“Well,” he offers. “I never said he is, but if you insist on that metaphor, then you just need to pick up your crayons and get to work. He can be happy like this. You can _make_ him happy.”

Akira thinks about the knives in Leblanc’s kitchen, about how close they are. Here, outside of Maruki’s palace, perhaps he could simply kill him, stab him to death, watch his blood soak the floorboards. It would be cathartic, sure, if it even worked. But it wouldn’t change anything—Akechi’s already gone, all that’s left is Maruki’s inadequate copy of him, a dead man walking, and Akira is the only one who sees that. And he only has himself to blame.

He suddenly feels tired—no, not just tired, he feels exhausted in a way he’s never been before. Fatigue percolates his whole being, seeps into the marrow of his bones. The futility of his fury hits him, heavy and overwhelming.

“Just go,” he tells Maruki. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Maruki doesn’t protest. He puts his hat back on and turns towards the door.

“If you need me again, don’t hesitate to contact me,” he adds before he leaves.

The bell chimes again, and Akira is left alone.

* * *

It’s February 7th, and Goro plays chess with Akira, laughing at something he said that really wasn’t that clever.

“Your remarks always give me so much to think about,” he says, reminding Akira of how he acted when they first met, when he was still so committed to his Detective Prince act, refusing to show Akira anything that lurked underneath. “But I won’t be distracted so easily, you know. You’ll have to try harder than that to win.”

Goro makes his move, and Akira can already tell he’s going to lose the match.

He should be striving to keep the score, demanding a rematch, keeping this pathetic shade of their rivalry alive.

He really can’t bring himself to care.

* * *

It’s February 10th. They’re upstairs, watching an old season of Featherman R that Akira rented months ago and never returned. Goro’s hand is warm in his.

“I used to love this show as a child, you know” Goro confesses.

Akira does know—the real Akechi told him so, once, when Akira asked about his flashy choice of weapons in the Metaverse. Told him about his childhood, about rewatching tokusatsu shows and Star Wars on worn VHS tapes, about wanting to be a hero, a fairytale prince, swooping in to save the day. About the time when he was still naive and idealistic, before the world ruined it.

That confession meant a lot to Akira—that Akechi trusted him with it, that he cared enough to share.

This is a meaningless echo, handed out by this Goro freely. Akira can’t stand to listen to it. He makes Goro shut up the only way he can think of.

Goro’s mouth is pliant under his, parting for him easily. It tastes like the coffee they drank, tastes like blood, like rot, tastes like nothing at all.

* * *

It’s February 13th, and Akira sets two cups of coffee on the table, sliding into the booth. In front of him sits Kasumi— _Sumire, damn it, her name is Sumire_ , his mind screams at him, but he tries to ignore it—who just finished inhaling two plates of curry.

“You seem a little down, Senpai,” she says, stirring her coffee. “Maybe you should hang out with everyone more often.”

Akira hums noncommittally.

“Oh, I know what could help! A little retail therapy,” she exclaims. “Ann-senpai is the best at that. She took me to this shop that had the cutest hair accessories. I bought a few hairpins and some bows.”

She turns her head, showing off the one currently in her hair.

“I get bored with this ponytail sometimes, so it’s fun to at least accessorize, since I’m not going to change it. I’m far too used to it, and it’s more practical than having my hair down.”

“I think you look good with your hair down,” Akira’s words leave his mouth before he can think.

“Senpai,” Kasumi laughs. “That’s flattering, but you’ve never even seen me with my hair down.”

Akira takes a sip of his coffee.

He used to wonder why everyone accepted Sumire’s change to Kasumi so easily, why no one questioned it or confronted her about it. The school he could understand, all they cared about was that she brought them the results they expected—but her friends, her parents? Were they really such cowards? 

“I misspoke,” he finally replies, setting his cup down with a soft clink. “What I meant to say is that I think you _would_ look good with your hair down.”

He doesn’t have to wonder anymore.

* * *

It’s February 14th. When Akira drags himself downstairs, Goro is there, waiting for him outside Leblanc.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he announces, voice a little breathy, a bit bashful, a tad coquettish. A whole lot _wrong_. His cheeks are dusted pink—whether from waiting outside in the cold or just to complete this romantic farce, Akira doesn’t know. “I wanted to see you before school, to give you this.”

There’s a box of chocolates in Goro’s outstretched hand, wrapped elegantly, no doubt from some trendy, overpriced chocolaterie. No doubt they’ll taste like ash in Akira’s mouth.

“I… I didn’t get you anything, I’m sorry,” Akira replies, playing with the fringe of his scarf and hoping his sheepish act is convincing enough. Even if he doubts that it makes any difference. “I forgot it was today.”

“Well, that just means you owe me, doesn’t it?” Goro’s smile gets cockier, satisfied with his victory. “I’ll come over for coffee, later today. You can make it up to me then.”

The hint of a challenge in Goro’s voice, the ghost of a smirk—they’re familiar enough to make something twist in Akira’s gut, twinge in his chest. To remind him of what he’ll never get back, of what he’s thrown away.

“Of course,” he forces himself to reply, and he hopes the smile he gives Goro as he watches him turn around and walk away is less bitter than the bile rising in his throat.

* * *

He doesn’t go to school. Instead, he aimlessly wanders the streets of Tokyo, visiting places Akechi took him. Does this reality’s Goro remember those? Some of them, maybe. But the events that truly brought them close, that made them what they were—those are definitely gone from his memory now. Their duel in Mementos, the promise they made, and everything that followed—all that is meaningless now. Nobody even remembers the Metaverse anymore.

Akira stands in front of the Shibuya Station where it happened. The entrance to Mementos isn’t there anymore. He clutches the glove in his pocket.

“I’m sorry,” he says out loud, not caring if all the people passing by hear it and think him a lunatic. It doesn’t matter. In this world, he thinks with bitter amusement, he could probably strip naked and take a shit right in the middle of the crowd, and reality would reshape itself around him to make it fine. He takes a steadying breath.

“We made a promise,” he continues. “And I’m the one who broke it. You trusted me with it, trusted me to make the right choice. I should have trusted you too. Should have known you’d keep it, you’d defy fate and reason and whatever else stood in your way just to stay alive, just so we could have our rematch.”

His eyes are stinging. The crowd moves around him, uncaring.

“You called me spineless, and it turns out I really am. I don’t think I deserve to keep your glove, not after failing you. So I suppose this is goodbye. I hope whatever happened to you in Maruki’s palace, whatever end you met,” Akira’s voice cracks, but he’s determined to finish, even if nobody is listening. “I hope you met it with no regrets.”

He carefully places the glove on the ground where Akechi stood all those months ago—like a pathetic mockery of a bouquet of flowers on a nonexistent grave.

* * *

His pocket feels weirdly empty.

In a corner of his mind, Arsène’s steadying presence used to reside, reminding him to keep going. The embodiment of his will of rebellion, manifested in flames. That part of him feels empty too.

Akira enters the side alley leading to the airsoft shop, where the entrance to the Velvet Room once was. He finds nothing there.

He takes out his phone, scrolls through the list of contacts until he finds what he’s looking for, and presses the call button.

“I’m done resisting,” he says, not bothering with unnecessary greetings. “So try again, make me believe your lie. I won’t fight it this time.”

“Very well,” Maruki’s voice replies. “It won’t happen immediately, but it will work soon enough. Oh, and one more thing, Kurusu-kun… I truly am glad that you’re giving yourself the chance to be happy.”

Akira hangs up. He looks up at the sky—the sun is setting now, afternoon slowly giving way to evening. Around him, the streets are gradually filling with happy couples, out to celebrate the romantic holiday. He needs to get back to the station, back to Yongen-Jaya, back to Leblanc.

It’s Valentine’s Day, and he has a date waiting for him.

* * *

The chocolates, contrary to Akira’s expectations, don’t taste like ash—if anything, they’re slightly too sweet.

He shares them with Goro, who is slightly too sweet as well. He makes him coffee. He takes him upstairs.

“Now,” Goro says, looking at Akira through his eyelashes, his red eyes gleaming. “I believe you have some making up to do.”

Akira kisses him, undresses him with deft hands, undoing button after button. Goro’s body is the same as Akira remembers it, even if the owner isn’t—not yet. So Akira pushes all thoughts out of his mind and forces himself to focus on what’s familiar. To ignore how the sounds Goro makes are all wrong, nothing like what Akechi sounded like.

“You can stay the night,” he offers afterwards, when they’re curled up on his bed, sweaty and breathless. “It’s late.”

Akechi never stayed, his mind whispers, but it’s nothing more than an afterthought, barely there.

Goro presses his lips to where Akira’s shoulder meets his neck, where a bruise he left with his teeth earlier has formed.

“I will.”

* * *

Akira wakes up, and the first thing he notices is that he’s warm—warm in a different way than usual, in a pleasantly heavy way. He opens his eyes, takes in his surroundings.

There’s someone curled up against him, pressed into his side, arm thrown over Akira’s chest, the source of the warm weight—no, not just someone. Goro Akechi.

His skin is bare, burning where it’s pressed against Akira. His hair is splayed around his head like a halo, nearly golden in the morning sun. Akira’s hand itches with the need to touch him, and so he does—traces the line of Goro’s shoulder blade, slides his fingers up the elegant curve of Goro’s neck, the sharp edge of his jaw to finally cup his cheek—feels him warm and real under his palm.

Goro stirs, still mostly asleep, but awake enough to return Akira’s kiss, to press closer against Akira, let Akira lick into his mouth, hungry, thirsty, needy. Akira’s hand slides from Goro’s face down his chest, pressing gently, and Goro goes willingly, lets himself be pushed onto his back. Spreads his legs to make room for Akira to fit between them, right where he belongs, bares his throat when Akira’s insistent mouth finally leaves his lips in favor of moving lower.

Akira tongues at Goro’s skin, tasting it, and when he seals his mouth over a spot on Goro’s neck, pressing into it with just the edge of teeth, Goro gasps. It’s the most beautiful sound Akira’s ever heard.

It’s February 15th. It’s a beautiful day. Goro Akechi—the love of his life—is alive, is real, is right there with him.

Things couldn’t possibly get any better.

**Author's Note:**

> first time publishing anything ever and this is not beta read so i’m sure there’s a lot of mistakes in it, at this point i don’t even know if anything makes sense. please bear with me, and if you’ve managed to read this mess, thank you


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